


Your Silence in a Crowded Room

by jacyevans



Series: Silence [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Mute Sam Winchester, POV Dean Winchester, Protective Dean Winchester, Recovered Memories, Sam and Dean have a Dog, Soft Dean Winchester, Surprisingly Domestic, Trauma From Lucifer's Cage (Supernatural), Trauma Recovery, but only with Sam
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-02
Updated: 2020-12-02
Packaged: 2021-03-09 20:46:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,411
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27822484
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jacyevans/pseuds/jacyevans
Summary: There are a hundred things Dean wants to say at the moment, most of them assurances that Sam isn't useless, nor is he a burden. Dean misses Sam’s voice, misses his banter and his bitching. His silence drives Dean up a wall some days.None of that matters. Sam is here, alive, with a soul. That’s more than enough for Dean.
Series: Silence [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2034286
Comments: 4
Kudos: 63





	Your Silence in a Crowded Room

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place a year after "For Any Hope or Promise." You don't need to read that fic to understand this one, but it would probably help with some of the context.
> 
> This was originally written as a gift back in 2011 over on LJ. The fic has been edited before re-posting.
> 
> Title and lyrics from "Rise Above" by Reeve Carney feat. Bono and The Edge.

_your silence in a crowded room  
louder than the loudest tune  
i hang on every word_

* * *

Dean stares at his brother sprawled out on the couch, one leg hanging over the edge. He shifts in his sleep, grunting into the cushions. Hope slits open her eyes, glances at Sam, and goes back to dozing with her fuzzy head resting on his thigh.

Dean grabs the afghan off of the back of the couch and drapes it over his brother and moves to the kitchen to cook dinner. Something simple, he thinks, pasta and sauce maybe.

The house is quiet beyond Sam’s quiet snores from the living room. He lets the sound calm him, boiling the water for the pasta, slowly stirring the sauce. The smell of garlic and spices soon fills the air, and Dean hears the jangle of Hope’s collar just before she bounds into the backs of his knees.

“Christ!” Dean yelps, almost dropping the wooden spoon onto her head.

Hope nudges his legs, softer this time but no less obnoxious. She yips softly.

“Yeah, yeah, hold your horses, I'll get your damn food. Stupid mutt,” he grumbles and gets a soft snort in response.

He turns, eyes narrowing at his brother. Sam is leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed, the afghan draped over his shoulders.

“Control your dog,” Dean growls, though there’s no heat behind the jab.

Sam squats down. Hope trots across the kitchen to his side, nudging her head into his hand. He points at the floor and she sits, tongue lolling out while he scratches her ears with pride, lips pulling back into a smirk.

“Shut up,” Dean mutters, opening a can of dog food. Sam huffs a laugh. He pats Hope a final time and stands, using the counter to keep steady. One of his knees cracks.

Dean sets Hope’s bowl on the floor and she sprints for it, claws clicking across the linoleum. Sam picks up the dropped spoon and runs it under hot water before shaking it dry. He sticks the spoon into the sauce, tastes it, and immediately makes a face.

When he reaches for the salt, Dean blocks him with an elbow. “Hey, hey, easy on the condiments.” Sam shoots him a withering glare, dipping the spoon back into the sauce and holding it out for Dean to take.

He snatches the spoon out of Sam’s hand and tastes for himself. 

Oh, gross.

Sam turns his back to check on Hope, and Dean cringes, adding more salt to the pot.

Hope barks. Sam reaches over Dean’s head for the plates with a shit-eating grin that says, _I know exactly what you did. I win._

“Says the man who burned boiling water," Dean retorts, sticking out his tongue. "Boiling water, Sam, who burns water?”

Sam shoves his shoulder into Dean's chest as he makes his way towards the counter. Dean elbows him in the ribs and Sam grunts but doesn’t say a word aloud in protest. 

Dean isn’t surprised. Sam hasn’t spoken in over a year.

* * *

When his bedroom door creaks open in the middle of the night, Dean doesn’t reach for the gun beneath his pillow.

He isn’t getting flabby - there are enough wards around the house to keep out just about anything beyond God. Not that the Big Man would be welcome here anyway.

No, Dean doesn’t reach for his gun because he knows only Sam could open a door with such hesitance, unsure of his welcome, so the hinges creak long and loud.

Dean scoots over to the other side of the bed and pulls back the covers, waiting for the dip in the mattress as Sam lies down before pulling the blankets up to his shoulders.

The bed sinks a second time. Hope settles in-between them, resting her head in its customary position on Sam’s thigh.

Sam leans his forehead against the back of his brother's shoulder. Dean reaches back to rub along his wrist, feeling his pulse slow it’s adrenaline-rushed rhythm as Sam’s breath evens out. Only then does Dean close his eyes, press back into his brother, and sleep.

He wakes up with Hope panting in his face, her tail thumping against the floor.

Dean groans, grumbling about dog breath and stupid little brothers who spoil their pets. He shoves his elbow backward, expecting to meet Sam’s shoulder, and he yelps when he meets the harder jut of Sam’s knee.

He turns over and growls, “Dude, warn a guy.”

Sam stares back, eyes dazed and only half-focused on Dean.

He moves slower now, softer; even the sound of his legs scratching along the sheets seems too loud in the otherwise quiet room. He doesn’t touch Sam. He learned the hard way that touching Sam during one of these episodes when he doesn’t initiate the contact leads to screaming, while Sam pulls away like he’s been scalded.

Sam stares and stares until eventually, Dean can’t stand the silence any longer.

“Sam,” he whispers. When Sam doesn’t respond, he whispers again, “Sammy.”

Sam blinks. Then, he takes a deep breath. Dean scrubs a hand over his face.

Sam’s gaze is more focused when it settles on Dean this time. He cracks a smile, saying, “You know, staring at me like that is gonna give me a complex.”

His joke falls flat. Sam starts to shiver, and Dean sighs, leaning up to tuck the blanket around his shoulders. Sam flinches when Dean’s hand brushes the bare skin at his neck. He lowers his mournful gaze to the sheets, fingers playing along the seam of his pants.

“Aw, Sammy,” Dean sighs. Sam doesn’t look up.

He settles his hand on Sam’s arm, slow and careful like he’s breakable. “Come on. I’ll make you some tea.”

* * *

Sam finally stops shaking long enough to walk the thirty feet down the stairs and into the living room. He huddles down on the couch under a blanket, sipping some girly concoction Dean added a drop of whiskey to on principle.

He drops down beside Sam with a cup of coffee, close enough that their thighs press together. When Sam doesn’t flinch away, Dean reaches over to take the mug from his trembling hands.

“You know, I could stay home today,” he says, but Sam drops the car keys into his lap before he finishes getting the words out.

Dean spent a lot of their first six months in the house doing basic maintenance - painting, fixing the broken boards on the porch, filling in the cracks on the concrete steps. Credit card scams wouldn’t hold them over forever, however, and when the cash finally ran out, he was too proud to continue depending on Bobby.

He found a part-time job on the blink-and-you’ll-miss-it main road in town, bartending three nights a week. He also works in a garage masquerading as a tiny mechanic’s shop on Saturdays. Neither job pays well, he makes barely enough to get by, but no one asks questions, and he can’t ask for more than that.

Word gets around, though, as it always does in small towns. Dean has his groceries delivered on days Sam’s in such a bad state, Dean can’t leave him alone for more than five minutes at a time. Hikers drop by about once a week during the warmer months, asking for directions to the local campgrounds.

Otherwise, people pass through without stopping to introduce themselves to their neighbors. Dean likes it that way. He knows people talk about the new guy and his strange, silent brother who hardly ever leaves the house, hears them whispering at the bar when they think he won’t notice. He doesn’t encourage them but doesn’t correct any of their wild theories, either. They couldn't even fathom the truth.

Dean closes the keys in his palm and stares at Sam, gauging his mood. His eyes, while glassy, are focused on Dean, face flushed rather than deathly pale.

He runs a hand through his hair and sighs. “You need me, you call me.” Sam rolls his eyes, waving Dean out the door, and his chest finally unwinds.

* * *

Despite several text messages throughout the afternoon - wherein Dean asks if Sam is all right by himself no less than ten times, and Sam’s single word answers are enough to broadcast his exasperation across the phone lines - Dean spends the day distracted. It’s his job, worrying about Sam, always has been, always will be, and what if something happens while he isn’t there to help?

He gets home hours later than he hoped, wanting nothing more than check on Sam and crawl into a shower. There’s an empty soup can on the counter and a dirty bowl in the sink, so Sam ate something, at least.

“Sam?” he calls, voice carrying through the house. Finding the living room empty, he trudges up the stairs, feet dragging with exhaustion.

A light shines into the hallway from Sam’s room. Dean pushes the door open, preparing a sarcastic remark about not burning the house down that gets stuck in his throat and dies.

Sam sitting at the computer doesn't shock Dean.

He's been there more and more often as of late, walking out of rooms with books tucked under his arm or scribbling in a small, spiral notebook. Just this week, he was so absorbed in his work, he didn’t notice Dean stuck out his foot until he tripped over it, making Sam scowl and flip him the bird as he walked past.

This time though, Sam is sitting at the laptop in his bedroom with John's journal open at his elbow, one of Hope's stupid squeaky toys in the center, keeping the book open. Hope dozes, curled up under the table with her head on Sam's feet. He glances down at the journal, brow furrowing - probably at Dad's crappy handwriting, words smudged by grave dirt and coffee rings - then turns back to the computer, typing away, completely oblivious to his brother’s presence until Dean clears his throat.

Sam jumps like he's attached to a live wire, clicks the mouse, and springs back. Hope lifts her head with displeasure. 

"What are you doing, Sammy?" Dean teases. Sam shrugs, turning back to the computer so Dean only sees his profile, bangs hanging into his face and concealing his eyes.

Dean leans over his shoulder, chin resting heavily on the top of his head. Sam scowls, flicking Dean's ear and shoving him out of the way. Dean slaps the back of his head, and Sam reaches up to pull him into a headlock, knocking the journal off of the desk and sending Hope running, barking up a storm. The angle of Sam's arms is all wrong, and Dean slips out of his hold, grabbing onto the back of Sam's chair and rolling him away from the computer.

Sam lunges, growling, and that's a little victory in and of itself. Dean clicks onto the second tab. He pauses, trying to comprehend what he's seeing as he scrolls down the page: a freakin' encyclopedia of monsters, indexed by category and type of beast, neat and tidy and legible.

Dean blinks. He glances at Sam shifting from foot to foot and staring at Dean through his stupid, floppy hair.

"You do this?"

Sam hesitates for a moment then nods.

Dean smiles because hell if he would have thought of something like this or been able to put it together even if he had. Ask Dean to take apart a computer and put the components back together again and give him a weekend to get the job done. Ask him the difference between Twitter and Facebook and he'll stare at you blankly.

"Geek," Dean says, fond and proud. Sam's eyes narrow as he bends down to pick up the journal, making a sound that could almost be mistaken for muttering under his breath.

"What was that? I couldn't hear you over all the geek."

Sam stands up and glares, but he clutches the journal tightly in his hands, twisting the pages back and forth so Dean hears the binding crack. He opens his mouth, then sighs, frustrated. He settles on a shrug, scratching idly at his shoulder, and Dean drops the jokes and the shit-eating grin because that’s when he gets it.

Dean started following a few small cases close to home the past few months, asking Bobby to contact other hunters for help with anything that would take him too far from home - from Sam - for too long. The last time Bobby swung by, Sam hovered close to a table covered in newspaper articles and open books, practically vibrating with the need to put in his two cents. He couldn't manage to get the words out of his mouth.

When Dean raised an eyebrow, asking, "Something you want to add, Samantha?" Bobby rolled his eyes, and Sam glared, storming off instead.

Sam wants to feel _useful._ Jesus.

There are a hundred things Dean wants to say at the moment, most of them assurances that Sam isn't useless, nor is he a burden. Dean misses Sam’s voice, misses his banter and his bitching. His silence drives Dean up a wall some days.

None of that matters. Sam is here, alive, with a soul. That’s more than enough for Dean.

He doesn’t know how to say any of that, though, not without sounding like a total girl. Instead, he grabs Sam's hand on the edge of the desk. Sam exhales, fingers playing over Dean's knuckles. Suddenly, Sam is smiling, proud, like when he won his little league trophy, or beat Dean in a race, or took Dad down during training, or a million other moments Dean can recall. 

He doesn’t think he’s ever loved the kid more in his life. “Sam,” Dean whispers as if his brother’s name is a spell that will finally break his silence.

Sam just squeezes his hand.

* * *

Dean wakes in the middle of the night with Sam’s body pressed against his, a fire blazing at his back. His octopus arms are wrapped tight around Dean’s chest, one hand resting directly over his heart.

He presses back against Sam, closer still. Sam's forehead rests against the back of his neck, warm breath against his skin that materializes into a single sound.

“Dean,” Sam mouths, barely a word at all. Dean holds his breath, waiting.

“Dean. Dean,” Sam whispers again, almost silent but unmistakable.

Dean exhales a shaky laugh. For the first time in a year, he feels like he can breathe.


End file.
